Too Late
by Supernova95
Summary: There was nothing in Tim's room, nothing that named it Tim's. They may just have well walked into a random guest room. There was nothing but a photo in a plain photo frame on a bare bedside table. A photo of them, the family. The family sans Tim.


**I was in a bad mood... sorry...**

**Warning: Deathfic... if that's not your thing read no further, you have been warned.**

* * *

They never realised until it was too late. Until he was gone. Until the day that started out like any other but ended in blood, sweat, tears and the beatless heart of a little boy who had long since died inside.

That only when they were home and fingers had been pried off the lifeless body and tears had run dry did they even think about it. About him.

Only then did they venture into the room that he called his own in the manor, sit down and wonder why there was nothing in it. Nothing that named it Tim's. They might as well have walked into a random guest room, there were no cloths strewn across the floor, or posters on the wall, or weapons collections, or blade sharpeners, or tea pots, or even files... There was just nothing.

Nothing but one photograph in a plain photo frame on a bare bedside table.

Nothing put a picture of them, the family. The family sans Tim.

Even the boxes stacked neatly in the bottom of the wardrobe. Boxes full of pictures. Pictures of Damian's first day of school, or Dick's graduation, of Jason's progression back into the family, of day to day family life, everyone happy, smiling, everyone but Tim. Tim who just wasn't there.

Tim, the lonely boy in the manor next door, who his whole life was taught not to make even so much a dent on the existence of those around him, who was just a little boy with a camera and too much time on his hands, who realised something was wrong with his hero, who was a hero in his own right, who had come into their lives because he wanted to help.

Tim who had died and left them to become a ghost of the manor, to become a room where they could go to brood, to talk, to shout and cry to the memory of the boy who gave until he could literally give no more. But who could brood, talk, shout, cry to an empty room, a room with nothing in it, no memories, no good times, no bad times no wisps of the person who once should have called it home.

Not even Batman can talk to a ghost that doesn't exist.

To each other they blame his parents, for making him think that he shouldn't be seen or heard or even be. Silently they blame themselves. They blame themselves for not making sure he knew they wanted him, that they loved him, that he was more than just some place keeper, that he was more than just some stand in partner/brother/son that he had a home with them, that it was okay to mess up, to get dirty, to throw cloths on the floor after a long night, to put memories on the walls.

But they didn't. And now it was too late.

Too late because Tim was gone, not just out of Gotham on some crazy search for Bruce but gone gone. About to be put six feet under, stone cold and even whiter than usual gone. Dead gone.

And it hurt, it hurt because there was no time for goodbye, no time for we love you, or we'll miss you. One minute they were taking a break from the alien invasion happening all around them, just to see each other, to make sure they were both still alive; and the next Nightwing was being shoved to the ground and Red Robin was flying into the wall behind them, he looked so peaceful, like when he was able to sleep without nightmares; just this time he didn't wake up.

It hurts most because nobody really knew if Tim died knowing these things, if he knew that they loved him and they would miss him, and sitting in his room it was easy to believe he never knew them.

It was easy to think that all Tim knew was distance and abandonment. That people only touched him if he was hurt, and even then they never really touched him when he was young and inexperienced, when he didn't know better… then he patched himself up. Even in the hard to reach places, _why else would they have taught him to be flexible?_ It was easy to believe that, even after all this time, Tim still believed himself a necessity to them. Someone kept to do things for them, an employee paid by having a roof over his head, meals on the table and somewhere to put his vast knowledge base to use.

It was easy to believe but hard to accept.

Hard to accept that it was possible for Tim to still think that, after everything that he still didn't think of himself worth more than the batcomputer, that he thought himself something expendable, that was easily replaced.

It was easy for Dick to feel responsible for that.

Because really when was the last time they didn't see Tim and order him to do something for them, asked Tim if he needed help with anything, or merely hang out with him like they wanted him there in the manor, treated him like he wasn't just there for their use.

When was the last time Dick called him 'Little Brother'?

It was easy to see why Tim didn't think of himself as a part of their family, why he never really moved in, why he would, without thought, disregard Batman's main rule of coming out alive, and put himself in mortal danger for Dick.

For Dick, whose reflexes were plenty fast enough to have ducked; but Tim wouldn't take that chance… because this was Dick, his childhood idol and firstborn of his mentor… they Golden Boy. This was the man who disregarded his feelings, who disregarded everything Tim had gone through and took away the glue that so obviously was holding him together and Tim _still_ died for him.

It was easy for Dick to feel responsible for that.

With Tim everything was easy, too easy. So easy that it was hard not to forget he was there at all. Want a piece of research done? Tim's done it and it's colour coded and everything; want a battle plan drawn up? Tim can do that too and include blueprints and flowcharts; have a problem? Tim will be there and listen and soak it all in and give you the best solution imaginable.

Tim was everything and always there and they hadn't noticed until he was gone.

They look for the research on a specific subject and it's not there and they ask and people are silent and then they remember just **who** did the research. They wonder why things are going wrong in battles why they aren't organised and striking with their usual cohesion and they remember Tim didn't draw it up. They rant and rave at an empty room, the room with no essence of a ghost, and wonder why they don't know what to do… and are met with silence.

They organise his funerals, one for capes to come to and one just for family and friends.

When it came to his friends they were stumped; who was Tim friends with outside of the family? Who hadn't died? Who hadn't he been forced by them to push away? They thought about the original Young Justice, people Tim had been friends with for years and Cassie was the only one left; Kon was dead, Bart was dead… the others were… unreachable. They thought about Tim's school friends and friends in Gotham; Ariana had moved away, Ives was back in hospital (his cancer had come back), Stephanie was dead.

It ended up the family, the Foxs and Cassie, Clark and Diana made apperences, but that was more for Bruce than for Tim.

They realised they really didn't know Tim, they didn't know just how much he had sacrificed. _They had all sacrificed something had they not how could Tim be any different? _They hadn't thought that the little boy who approached they all those years ago could lose so much and still carry on; but then they realised he had lost so much the mission was all he had left.

As per Titan tradition they erect a statue of him in front of the tower and in their hall of fallen Titans, Tim is smiling and they have to ask themselves;

Really, when was the last time they saw Tim smile? When was the last time they heard him laugh? Or look happy, ust a little bit?

You never know what you've got till it's gone.

And for them, for Tim, it was too late.


End file.
